


something something the sun

by Lythalia (orphan_account)



Category: Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard - Rick Riordan
Genre: M/M, realistic descriptions of freezing to death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 05:11:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15163400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Lythalia
Summary: It was a bit funny to think about, but Hearthstone had never been cold before.Not that he was laughing then, though.





	something something the sun

It was a bit funny to think about, but Hearthstone had never been cold before.

 

Not that he was laughing then, though.

 

He’d been in shade, he knew the refreshing feeling of sitting under trees when the sunlight felt a little too strong. He knew the nip of air conditioned rooms. He knew the taste of iced tea. He thought all of these things were cold. And from the balmy, sunlit hills and forests of Alfheim, he had nothing to change his opinion.

 

All he knew was heat, a warmth deep in his blood that never went away.

 

But here, surrounded by jagged rock and in complete darkness, he realized what cold was.

 

Hearthstone knew where he was, and just thinking the name felt like a death sentence. Fear washed over him, sent shivers up his spine, accentuating the chill. His hands found each other, still warm, though he knew they won’t be for long. He spelled it out to himself, and it was like a frozen dagger to his neck.

 

 _Nidavellir._ The dark fields.

 

He started moving, on autopilot. His limbs already felt heavy, he was _so_ tired, and he couldn’t help but think ‘ _it’s already happening, I’m supposed to have more time_ ’. But he set his jaw and pushed himself forward, he’d be fine, he’d survived worse (had he?), he just needed to find the city. Then someone could show him a way back. He’d never travelled by the world tree before, but he knew it was an option. There’s got to be a gateway… somewhere. Then he’ll be home, and no one would even know he had been gone, and he could go back to workchecking his escape plan. He’d be in Midgard in no time.

 

Reaching out with his hands, he felt some kind of rough wall. In the darkness, Hearthstone could only use his terrible sense of direction to guide him as he walked. He didn’t know how big Nidavellir was, or how close he was to civilization. Would he even be able to tell when he got there? Did dwarves even need lights? Suddenly, he realized he might have to actually meet a dwarf. Surely they couldn’t be that bad, but what would they think of him? It was probably pretty rare for elves to wander in. Would anyone even know ASL? Would he have to resort to just… writing things out?

 

It wasn’t that terrible of a possibility, obviously, and it definitely beat dying. But still, from what any other elf had said in Alfheim, dwarves were supposed to be rough. What if they laughed at him? What if they were worse than elves? Hearthstone knew every elf he’d met elves disliked dwarves, but what if dwarves disliked elves just as much? What if no one even took enough pity on him to help him?

 

Too distracted by his thoughts, Hearthstone wasn’t careful enough to notice the sudden drop in front of him. He stumbled forward, and fell. His arms flailed wildly, scraping along the uneven surface of the rock, and pain shot through them, but he couldn’t catch any kind of handhold. His side slammed into something that felt like a column, and his ribs groaned in his chest before he continued tumbling down. Lines of pain traced themselves over his skin, on his back, his legs, his face, like tiny knives. Bits of rock smacked him and dug into his flesh on all sides, bruising. Hearthstone could feel his throat straining, and he couldn’t even gas for breath.

 

Finally, he rolled to a stop after falling a second time, and landing flat on his back. There was no air in his lungs, and he choked on sobs. He was completely disoriented, and even though he was still submerged in pitch black, it felt like he was spinning. Everything ached. His chest heaved, and though he tried desperately to roll over, Hearthstone was too weak to. He threw his head to the side, feeling it throb with the motion. Unable to stop himself, he threw up, suffocating on his own vomit.

 

Suddenly, his lunged expanded and he inhaled, choking and coughing. As his breath returned to him, the pain followed. He was immediately excruciatingly aware of how scraped raw he was, shirt and jeans torn in too many places to count. His hands were wet, and he was beginning to smell the metallic, floral stench of his own blood.

 

His head fell back against the ground with a throb, and he didn’t even notice himself wailing as he felt the many, many contusions he’d managed to gather twinge in pain.

 

Nausea swirled in Hearthstone’s gut, and try as he might to push it down, he found himself puking again. Tears welled in his eyes and drool poured down his chin, helplessly.

 

Eventually, after about twenty minutes of crying, he regained a little of his senses. The pain dwindled from agonizing to distracting, and he did his best to get his faculties under control. For the most part he had stopped bleeding, but his limbs felt sticky and stung with every movement.

 

Hearthstone tried to steady his quick breathing, lungs straining, and tried to determine how battered he was. Aside from the scrapes and bruises, it felt like there was something lodged or twisted the wrong way inside his chest. A terrible headache was forming on the back of his head, where he’d smacked the ground, and it _pulsated,_ only slower than his rapidly beating heart. Was he concussed?

 

Taking note of his injuries brought something worrying to his attention- inside his fingerless gloves, his fingers had lost feeling. Bringing them close to his face, he squinted desperately into the black, but couldn’t even see an outline of his hands. In his mind’s eye, Hearthstone’s fingers had lost their green flush and gone blue and black at the nails. It wasn’t a pleasant thought. On his wrists, he felt his blood, cool and wet.

 

He flapped his hands back and forth at the wrists, but the closest thing to feeling he found was vague pins and needles.

 

Now that he was paying attention, his boots were heavier than they should’ve been. He tried fruitlessly to lift one from his position, but it was no use- his foot just sagged across the ground.

 

The fear was starting to pool into Hearthstone’s stomach, and it made him hyper-aware of just how cold he had gotten without noticing. It probably wasn’t… beyond saving, yet. But he was so used to being warm, and it felt like the heat was leaking out from his wounds with his blood. A dull, uncomfortable chill rested over him, like was in a breeze. Sweat formed on his face, and Hearthstone wrenched himself upright with no regard for his body.

 

Vision swimming, gagging up bile, he found where the wall continued and clung to it with numb, clumsy fingers, and pulled himself forward. As he blinked, his vertigo began to fade, and he saw something out of the corner of his eye.

 

A tiny light, far, far away.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! I wanted to write something for Hearthstone's first trip to Nidavellir, and ended up writing a little more than I expected. It probably won't be too long, but I thought it would be better to release it in chapters. Tags will be added as they appear.
> 
> Still don't have a beta, so if you catch any mistakes I'd love to hear them. And as always, feedback is awesome and comments are always welcome. Thanks guys! <3
> 
> (Sorry the first chapter is so short, I wanted to do alternating perspectives and this is where Hearth's ended.)


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